Hold my war hammer
Why Comic-Con became San Diego’s most beloved convention
By Rosanna Viirre
By Rosanna Viirre
I raised my hefty war hammer over my head, boots planted firmly to support its weight, hands gripping the handle’s cloth binding. Leather straps tugged at my chest, and my silver shoulder plate brushed my cheek. The man crouched at my feet scowled at the enormous weapon with anticipation, waiting for the blow to arrive. He gave me the okay, and I lowered the hammer towards him.
*Click* I smiled and lifted the bludgeon from his head, flinging it back over my shoulder. He uncurled from beneath me, concentrating on his phone as he stood. “It turned out great!” he said, turning the screen so I could see the selfie he’d taken. I nodded and ran a hand through my spikey and unnaturally white hair. “Thank you so much, great costume.” I thanked him and told him it was no problem. He melted into the colorful swell of people around us as I collected the bags I had set at my feet. People had been approaching me for pictures all day, but that was the first time someone had asked me to fake smashing them over the head. Being careful not to tug the spikes in my wig, I pulled my lanyard back over my head. I grabbed the badge dangling at the end of the necklace and flipped it around so the front was showing again. Its large, blocky text read: San Diego Comic-Con International. Every year, San Diego Comic-Con brings upwards of 130,000 attendees— costumed and not— into 615,700 square feet of convention center, spilling over into San Diego’s historic Gaslamp Quarter. These “con-goers,” as they call themselves, are popular arts fans coming together to fill their swag bags with exclusive figurines and t-shirts, or for a chance to score autographs from the cast of the show they sit down to watch every week, among other things. It’s not just fans either; professional artists and producers of all kinds come from around the world to collaborate, to teach, and to publicize their work. This massive gathering is an “educational nonprofit” according to Comic-Con International (CCI), the convention’s organizing committee. It’s goal: to create “awareness of, and appreciation for, comics and related popular art forms” and “celebrate the historic and ongoing contribution of comics to art and culture.” An educational nonprofit? That’s not exactly the image I had in mind as I waded through a sea of Slave Princess Leas, heavily armored and grisly-faced warriors, and every Marvel or DC superhero I could think of. The event goes so far as to block off traffic so hundreds of bloodsplattered zombie-impersonators can freely stagger down the streets of Downtown in a “zombie walk”. Needless to say, Comic-Con is quite a substantial occurrence, and it’s no small task putting it on every year. CCI hires swaths of different workers— electricians, engineers, and laborers to name a few, in order to put the whole thing together. It also requires money. Lots of money, and lots of resources. But the benefits of investing in this event are many: the San Diego Workforce Partnership has calculated that nowadays Comic-Con brings over $178 million to the local economy. Taking all things into consideration, the financial impact could be even bigger than that. The figure was generated without some factors included, such as the substantial amount spent by companies on advertising at the convention. It’s not hard to imagine how that would add up if you consider the pedicabs dressed as whimsical carriages from Grimm taking con-goers to and from their hotels. Or the massive, grisly face of Eddard Stark gazing intensly from his perch on the side of a skyscraper, promoting the new season of Game of Thrones. Publicizing is the crux of Comic-Con, with companies going so far as to buy out entire restaurants in the Gaslamp Quarter so they can decorate them with regalia from their new TV shows. Every summer the downtown scene is transformed for 5 days, and many weeks before the fact, in order to accommodate this massive celebration of all things geek. Though, Comic-Con wasn’t always the multi-million dollar production it is today. 34 years ago, 300 people crammed into the basement of the downtown U.S. Grant Hotel to attend panels and screen movies together. The 1970 Golden State Comic-Con set in motion the convention that was to become one of the largest of it’s kind in the country, right here in San Diego. This first convention was the brainchild of Shel Dorf, Richard Alf, Ken Krueger and Mike Towry; a small group of comic, sci-fi, and movie enthusiasts wanting to further grow and connect the community they loved. For most of the 70’s, Comic-Con was held in the El Cortez, the ex-hotel later turned apartment complex. It’s iconic red-lit sign still cuts through the Downtown San Diego skyline today. As the con grew over the next several years, it had to be moved to a larger facility. In 1979 it was relocated to the San Diego Convention and Performing Arts Center, where it enjoyed a bit more breathing room, and ultimately stayed for another 12 years. In
1991, Comic-Con finally settled down under the sprawling glass roofs of
the newly built San Diego Convention Center, where it’s been held ever
since. The Convention Center is arguably an iconic part of Comic-Con,
but the very existence of the premises was only allowed after a tense
legal and political battle. The city itself had decided to pay for the
center, figuring the money the tourism industry would rake in from it
would well outweigh the $160 million construction price tag. Despite
protests from the public claiming the design for the center was “a
disaster” that would take away extremely valuable waterfront property,
the city stuck with it’s choice to build the facility that very well may
have kept Comic-Con in San Diego.
So why haven’t other cities taken the hint and hosted huge pop culture conventions of their own? The truth is they have, but San Diego Comic-Con remains unique in the rapidly growing convention scene, and continues to draw people from all over the world to this Southern Californian border city. Golden State Comic-Con created an easy to follow formula for putting together a successful convention. This formula of screenings, panels, and a sales floor can be applied to any number of subjects, which lead to the creation of genre specific cons like Anime Expo in Los Angeles. However, what makes Comic-Con stand out is it’s close ties with the moviemaking, gaming, and comic book industries; both because of it’s age, and because the creators were a part of the industry themselves. This legacy of bringing the industry straight to the consumers began in 2001, when the first trailers of Spider-Man and Star Wars: Episode II were released exclusively for the event. But why San Diego? Aren’t there cities designed to accommodate crowds much bigger than 130,000 people with ease? For the past few years I’ve heard many a rumor that Comic-Con is going to uproot and move to Los Angeles, a city with a bigger airport, roomier convention centers, more hotels, and plenty of opportunity to expand the convention. But I have yet to make a commute to the City of Angels to attend Comic-Con. Maybe there’s reluctance to leave it’s native soil, or maybe the city offers enough money to give the event a stable home. Whatever the cause, something has been keeping Comic-Con here for over 40 years. These were the thoughts floating through my head as my friend and I stood in line at the “SyFy Cafe” (which was actually the Hard Rock Cafe, post SyFy channel buy-out). The drone of the crowd buzzed in my ears. My feet ached, and the bags I had been carrying had slowly filled up after a day of purchasing. “Here, can you hold this?” I asked my friend, handing her my hammer. She grinned, excited to get her hands on the impressive prop. Proudly, she held it over her shoulder like she had taken down an army, while I fumbled with my camera, trying to stuff it into my backpack. As tired as we were, we were still in good spirits- it was hard not to be. I thought about how thankful I was to be there, and about all the people at home, wishing they could find a way to join in. To them, Comic-Con was too far away, too expensive, too unattainable. To us, it was in our backyard. “Do you think they’ll keep Comic-Con here?” I asked. “It doesn’t matter to me,” my friend replied. It was true; there was a good chance her family would be moving out of town in the fall, far across the country. It would be too far away for her to attend. “I think they’re gonna move it to Los Angeles though.” I sighed, looking around at the crowd. The restaurant we had chosen was still engulfed in the madness of the convention, and most people were carrying the standard 3 foot square bags emblazoned with huge graphics the con offered as courtesy. Comic-Con would be safe for now, I thought. The organizational committee had announced the convention would definitely stay at home in San Diego until 2015. “I don’t know, I hope not.” |